


Sleepless Night

by iceblink



Series: Swan Queen Week 2015 [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan, Sharing a Bed, Swan Queen Week 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblink/pseuds/iceblink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all this world’s technology (thanks to Emma, she’s now the slightly bemused owner of an second-hand iPhone), she doesn’t imagine Google will yield much on “how to wake the other mother of your son who is snoring like a freight train.” She momentarily debates taking her phone from the nightstand and typing it in. She doesn’t. </p><p>Instead she just lies there, stiff, deliberately faced away from the blonde who is currently sprawled across approximately four-fifths of the queen sized bed. </p><p>Written for day 1 of Swan Queen week: Bed Sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Night

It’s awkward.

It shouldn’t be awkward, really, she thinks. This is Emma - Emma who has deplorable taste in pleather jackets, Emma who considers bearclaws a food group, Emma who, despite four years as sheriff, still cannot correctly fill in even the most basic form of paperwork to an acceptable standard.

Emma whose snoring on the other side of the bed is keeping her awake.

She’s not quite sure what the protocol is in this case. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have cared, would have quite freely woken the woman up and given her a piece of her mind - if not a fireball to the face - but now, mellowed, she finds herself lying there and agonising over social propriety.

For all this world’s technology (thanks to Emma, she’s now the slightly bemused owner of an second-hand iPhone), she doesn’t imagine Google will yield much on “how to wake the other mother of your son who is snoring like a freight train.” She momentarily debates taking her phone from the nightstand and typing it in. She doesn’t.

Instead she just lies there, stiff, deliberately faced away from the blonde who is currently sprawled across approximately four-fifths of the queen sized bed.

It had been difficult to refuse, really, despite the lump that had lodged in the pit of her stomach when they’d walked into the - _last available, really, they were lucky to get a room at all in the high season, hadn’t they thought to call and book ahead?_ \- room and seen a double, rather than twin beds. They’d circled around each other awkwardly, both waiting for the other to refuse, to demand that they return to the Bug and find somewhere else, and yet neither had, Emma simply sitting down on top of the comforter and smiling nervously at her as she’d stood frozen in the doorway. “How about it, Madame Mayor? I mean, it’s not like I snore or anything.”

Of course she snores. Of course she fucking snores.

It’s inevitable, thinks Regina. She’ll just resign herself to the lack of sleep, to the tiny fraction of the bed that she’s managed to carve out for herself, to the little brushes of yellow hair against the back of her neck as Emma harrumphs her way across the mattress in the oversized, faded Regina Pizzeria tee shirt that she’d emerged from the bathroom in, sheepish smile on her face. 

And then. God, oh god, the noises start to change. It’s soft at first, the addendum to the snore, a gasp almost, but within seconds it’s unmistakeable; Emma’s starting to _moan_. Soft, luxurious moans, the moans one makes when, _well_ -

This, well this Regina has even less idea how to deal with. The thought of Emma fantasising about the mangy pirate is not only, frankly, revolting, but for some reason painful, almost as if mother is there again, plucking her heart from her chest and squeezing. The moans continue, and she needs this to stop, but once again, Regina’s tentative, unsure, desperate not to destroy the hard won, difficult friendship that they’d carved out for themselves against a world that had destined them as enemies.

She rehearses lines, in a way that she’s always for some reason done around Emma, always tried to strategise about what to say, what to do. She could be direct, tap her on the shoulder and, with an impeccably raised eyebrow, go for “Miss Swan, please try to save your lurid fantasies of your fetid, rum-swilling, dive bar of a boyfriend for a time when I’m more than eight inches away from you.” And she could deliver it with gusto, of course, and Emma would wake, and her green eyes would gradually fill with horror as she realised what she’d been doing. Once, this would have filled Regina with relish, triumph even, but now the image is objectionable, the thought of Emma knowing what she’d heard, of looking at her - through her - with embarrassment and disgust. And in the morning, more awkwardness. No.

And so she lies still, caught between horror and - well, she supposes, curiosity - as Emma’s soft moans grow in volume, and the tips of the blonde mane tickle her neck. She should get up, she thinks, take a shower, wash off this strange cocktail of feelings, force down this nausea in her stomach. And yet, as if pulled by an invisible string, she finds herself shifting, turning towards the blonde, unable to move away.

And then Emma turns, her face now inches away from Regina’s, and the soft moans start to find syllables. And it’s neither Killian, nor Hook that sneaks from her lips, but a tender, slurred “-eena.” And Regina’s breath catches, and she can’t help moving her face closer, close enough that she can feel Emma’s breath on her face, her heart thudding in her chest as she listens, and, a few seconds later, again, it’s there, muffled into the pillow, a breathy “mmm-geena.”

And fuck, oh fuck, Regina’s heart thuds harder, and it’s suddenly all she can do not to reach out and touch, to run her fingers over Emma’s cheeks, to stroke the blonde mane and bring her lips close enough to swallow Emma’s whispers.

And once again, she doesn’t, frozen again around this strange blonde creature - the woman who saved her, the woman who defeated darkness, the woman who destroys Snow White’s household appliances on a semi-regular basis - but she can feel the words somewhere deep within her, almost as if some of the remaining darkness in her heart is lifting. Emma. Emma wants her.

Her Emma.

Snores and all.

And she knows that maybe it’s not quite time yet, and all things have their time, but she finds something within her urging her to be brave, and so she turns, facing again away from Emma, and pushes back slowly so that her back rests against Emma’s front, feeling the warmth against her. And it’s still tentative and hesitant, but it’s natural, not awkward at all; it feels, perhaps, like carving out a small slice of home for herself, a home that she’s never before been confident enough to ask for.

And sure enough, Emma muffles a sound of approval, shifts her hips closer, so that they’re flush against one another. She feels Emma’s arm sling itself over her, and she nestles back into the embrace, taking back her side of the bed as Emma curls languidly around her. And the snoring, and the moans have stopped, and she knows, she just knows, that if she looked back behind her there’d be a peaceful smile on Emma’s face.

She knows too that the next morning, when they wake entwined with one another, they’ll both blush. Emma will apologise, awkwardly blame the non-existent cold, stutter out a thoroughly unconvincing explanation. And she, well yes, she won’t be able to resist one of her finest comebacks - she’ll think of one later, ensure it’s a zinger - but she suspects she won’t be able to entirely hide the smile from her eyes.

She’s still smiling as she drifts off, finally, to a peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, Regina Pizzeria is one of Boston's finest pizza places. Another one is Emma's Pizza, so really, Boston is a confirmed SQ shipper.


End file.
